


Altered Beast

by SubwayWolf



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Emetophilia, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gags, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Lube, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Vomiting, abusive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubwayWolf/pseuds/SubwayWolf
Summary: Dex approaches Fisk in hopes that he'll receive care, care in the form of pain, pain in the form of relentless brutality.





	Altered Beast

**Author's Note:**

> hi im zack, and lester/bullseye's been my favorite marvel character since i was a kid. i thought netflix's interpretation was pretty neat. not sure if this a popular pairing, if it exists at all, since i'm more into the comics than the show... so im taking a shot in the dark, but here it is.
> 
> this is very nasty and bad ft. some non-con and abusive elements, so read at your own risk and be familiar with the tags. i chose not to use archive warnings but that doesn't mean none apply.
> 
> one final shout out to [deathtouch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathtouch/pseuds/Deathtouch) who enabled a latent/dormant vomit kink in me a few years ago and now it's just become so normal in my endless list of perversions that I've finally just gone ahead and written it.

Dex could barely make his way down the hallway. It was a miracle he was able to walk on his own, let alone find his way through a strange penthouse when he could hardly tell the difference between left and right.

He hated the sensation of being lost almost as much as he hated being _drunk_ and lost. To make matters worse, he was freezing cold and soaking wet and completely, ass-out naked, for he’d just gotten out of a bath that was lukewarm at best. 

His head was spinning badly and his stomach felt sick. He had to run a hand along the wall to keep his balance and make sure he didn’t stumble over. His other hand was covering up his privates in fear that Vanessa might walk out of her bedroom at the wrong time, if she was even home. Dex hoped desperately that he wasn’t about to walk into her room by mistake. 

All he could think of was getting another drink or having a cigarette to make the dizziness and stress in his head go away, but he had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t at home. He was at Wilson Fisk’s penthouse apartment. And he was fucking lost.

He got a hunch and pushed open the next door he came up to. He saw Fisk standing there near the bed, folding some laundry, his back to the doorway.

Fisk turned around. Fisk… why was he here again? He raised an eyebrow and avoided giving Dex a once-over like he had before – at least Dex had sworn he did, or maybe it was just his imagination. 

“Have you finished with your bath?” Fisk asked nonchalantly, like it was normal to have a butt-naked, wet, adult man wandering around his home. “I was going to bring in some towels for you. I brought some flannel pajamas you can borrow. It may look like you’re wearing floods, but they should fit you otherwise.”

Dex stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He didn’t say anything. 

After ordering Dex to strip down and get into a bath he had run, Fisk had endeavored to give Dex some ibuprofen and place a razor blade on the rim of the tub. His message was clear. Dex had contemplated the choice much longer than he’d like to admit, even though, to be honest, it was a little hard for him to judge passage of time right now.

Fisk approached him. He was taller, so Dex had to look up to make eye contact, which Fisk appeared to enjoy. He was very powerful and he knew it, and Dex knew it, and he was glad he knew better than to act on impulse like he had upon knocking on the front door just an hour past. 

Dex figured he could physically hurt Fisk if he wanted to. He take him out nice and easy from a distance. While anything in his hands was a potential weapon, Dex didn’t rule out any fantasies of beating on Fisk from up close, either. Dex was definitely in better shape that fat man, so the fight would be easy, and it would make the frustration stuffing up his head go away.

But he _didn’t_ want to fight Fisk. At least not anymore. He’d driven over here blind drunk in a total stupor, and when he saw this horrible man he had is mind on, Dex envisioned only one thing – grabbing Fisk by the collar and shoving his face into the drywall, or shoving him so his feet swept out under him, getting on top of him, landing a few punches in his eyes or beating his smug mouth until he was spitting blood. 

And now, even after Fisk had the fucking audacity to encourage Dex to kill himself, Dex didn’t feel that rage anymore. His fists weren’t clenched up. All his muscles were relaxed, and there was no hate inside of him. 

Why? Because Fisk had basically just held up a fucking mirror to him. For the first time in forever, Dex saw his own eyes. He saw weakness. He saw someone pathetic. He saw fear. He was drunk, but his mind made that conclusion clearly. That was not who he wanted to be. And Fisk claimed to be the only man who believed in Dex enough to help him.

Fisk stood square in front of him, a freshly-laundered pair of white-and-blue striped flannel pajama pants in his arms. When Dex reached his hand out to take them, Fisk grabbed him by the wrist. 

Dex seized up almost immediately. He didn’t like being touched when he was in a shitty mood – he felt like a live wire, but Fisk was just the same. The grip was strong and it kept him firmly in place even when he recoiled. Dex had definitely underestimated him on that account.

Fisk looked at the underside of Dex’s forearm. He found no cuts and no drawn blood. “You made your choice.” He looked into Dex’s eyes. “I’m glad.”

Glad that he didn’t have to deal with a corpse? Glad he didn’t have to clean blood stains out of the bathtub and scrub red off the tile floor? Or glad that Dex was alive – glad that he was brave enough to say no?

Dex swallowed. He clenched his jaw until Fisk released him and then took a breath. It wasn’t about being the better man right now. It was just about being a man. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fisk,” Dex mumbled. His tongue felt heavy. “For yelling at you earlier.”

A sigh made Fisk’s chest heave. “Put on some pants, Agent Poindexter.” He gave the pajamas to him and turned around and walked back to the bed again.

Dex put on the pants like he was told. Clearly, Fisk wasn’t responsive to apologies. So Dex spoke right from his heart and asked something he desperately needed an answer to. 

“Do you trust me?”

Fisk didn’t even flinch. “That’s something you have to earn.” He turned around, and the clothes Dex had worn today were neatly folded on the bed. “Get some sleep.”

Dex was dumbfounded as he watched Fisk walk away, move around him, and go towards the door. He was just about to open it and leave before Dex stopped him. 

“Wait.” He couldn’t think of exactly what to say, so he said the biggest question he had in his mind. “How?”

Fisk stepped back into the room and gave Dex a confused look. “How?” he repeated.

“How do I earn it?” Dex swallowed hard. His throat was starting to get tight, and words began spilling out of him. “Can you help me? Can you show me how to earn it, can you tell me what to do? I’ll behave however you say is right.”

Fisk’ eyes were cold. “No.” He waited and watched Dex frown. Maybe that’s what he wanted. “I won’t help you. You need to get better, rest, and do this on your own.”

Dex knew for certain that he _couldn’t_ do it on his own. That’s what tonight had shown him. His stomach turned, he felt like he was going to be sick. “Mr. Fisk, please…” When Fisk started to move to leave again, he reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve.

Fisk immediately shrugged him off. He spoke through his teeth, clearly so that he could understand. “Do not touch me. Ever again.”

Another wave of nausea washed over Dex. He could feel tears pooling in his eyes and tried to blink them away. “Please…” His throat was tight, making it even harder to force words out. “I’m not strong enough. Nobody wants me. I’m dangerous, all alone; I’m fucking _weak_.”

That set Fisk off again. He wasn’t going to leave until this was finished. He stood directly in front of Dex again. “I thought we had washed our hands clean of self-pity. You’re making me start to think that I was wrong about you, wrong about your courage.”

That hurt. Dex’s chest was tightening up, his stomach muscles contracting. He tried holding his breath but the tears were hitting him all at once, with no warning. He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes again, trying to hide himself, but it was no use.

“Are you _crying_ now?” Fisk shook his head, giving Dex a real once-over this time, but this one was judgmental and there was disappointment in his gaze. “You are such a pathetic mess. Why do I even waste my time on you?”

Dex sniffled. His nose was starting to run, and his body temperature was rising quick. The dizziness was back, and he was trying to breathe to calm himself but his throat was all tight and raw and it hurt when he tried to speak or swallow. He didn’t want to let out any sobs but it was so hard to hold them back since he was already just so weak and feeble and sick.

All the color instantly flushed from Dex’s face. His stomach curdled inside of him, and he could feel his stomach turning and the acid burning up his digestive tract. 

Fisk knew what was about to happen. He pointed to a trashcan on the adjacent wall. “Waste bin. Now.”

Dex barely made it. He hadn’t even keeled over the trash bin before his stomach soured and contracted all at once and vomit was rising up out of him like a rancid geyser. He kneeled over and emptied all of himself into the bin, hacking it out, and it was all coming out of him in a hot, soupy mess. It splattered and slopped out into the otherwise empty bin, splashing up on the sides. It burned as he heaved it up out of his stomach and up his esophagus. It was acidic and tasted like bitter hard liquor that hadn’t yet digested. There were chunks of lunch in there too, adding texture to the mess. After the initial contraction came the second, and he had no time to get air in before he was puking up even more. It was leaking out of his nose, too, the taste and scent absolutely putrid, and more hot tears were pouring out the corners of his eyes.

After a minute, but Dex finally coughed up the last of it. It came out in burning mouthfuls of acid and when he spat them out they splattered on the bottom of the trash bin with the rest. The smell was utterly putrid. The whole room was starting to stink of it, and as Dex kept his head over the top of the bin, he kept gagging, choking out nothing, his throat muscles spasming and his stomach churning and contracting in an attempt to heave up anything that was left, but he’d completely emptied himself.

Dex was light-headed, he felt like he was going to pass out from the smell. “God damn it…” he whined. He wiped the tears that were heavy in his eyes and eyelashes, unable to differ between which were from pain and which were from sadness.

It got worse. Dex’s cock was stiff between his legs. He didn’t know where this came from. There was an undeniable pleasure from being weak and completely helpless to your own insides, but not _that_ kind of pleasure… or was he actually getting off on this?

There was no way to hide it – his striped pants raised up like a circus tent. He moved a hand down to touch himself, grazing over the tip with the palm of his hand, creating friction between his cock and the thin blue fabric.

Fisk had already noticed. “You disgust me,” he scolded, predictably.

Dex struggled to lift his head, but once he did he was grateful to get away from the smell. He turned so that he was facing Fisk, who was standing behind him. He raised up on his knees so his face was level with Fisk’ crotch.

Fisk used a large hand to wipe up the warm vomit that had dribbled down Dex’s lips and onto his chin. “So weak. So fragile,” he chided in a voice. “I could hurt you so easily. You have no clue how easy it would be to break you.”

Dex’s heart was in his throat. He couldn’t swallow and could barely breathe. This was fear, and he knew that he deserved it, he knew that he needed it.

It was no use for Dex to rely on himself to get better. He had no friends, or family, nobody close enough to motivate him, not even his job or reputation. Even shame and humiliation didn’t encourage him to change. So maybe fear was necessary.

And it was working, so far. This was his last chance. He needed fear to be struck into him if he had any hope of improving. And Wilson Fisk was the man for the job, the only person Dex could place his faith in, the only person he could get on his knees and beg to be hurt by. 

Luckily he was already on his knees. He reached up and grabbed desperately at the fabric of Fisk’ pants. “Fuck me. Please fuck me. I want it.” His throat was raw, his voice barely at talking volume.

Fisk paused and stalled. “Do you think I care what you want?”

Dex swallowed hard, and it burned all the way down. His dick was throbbing, aching. His cheeks were pink and his teary eyes looked up at Fisk helplessly. “I’m begging.”

“Yes. You are.” 

It took pure courage and a lot of strength he didn’t have, but Dex stood up. He stepped out of the pajamas he had just put on and was naked again. He balled his fists at his sides and just waited.

Fisk kept eye contact, he didn’t look down. “Get on the bed.” 

Dex did as he was told. His heart thumped in his chest. He tended to be hyper-aware of body functions when he was drunk like this, but this was next level.

Fisk walked up to the dresser on the other side of the room. He was in no rush at all to give an answer to Dex, but it didn’t seem like he really needed to.

Once he was settled on the bed, Dex started to relax with his head in the pillows, and he played with himself so he wouldn’t doze off. He reached under his legs and pressed a finger into his ass, just wriggling it deep enough to stretch the rim and get him more excited. 

He waited until Fisk looked at him and made eye contact. Once he did, Dex used another finger to spread the rim open so Fisk could see inside of his hole. But his attention wasn’t grabbed – he turned back to the dresser, where he was unrolling a condom over his already-hard cock. There was Dex’s answer.

As soon as Dex let his guard down a little, Fisk threw something at him and it landed with a soft thud on the pillows beside his head. It was a single sock. Dex’s stomach sunk. He didn’t want to have to jerk himself off, that’d just make him feel sadder and weaker and lonelier.

“Put that in your mouth,” Fisk instructed. “I don’t want to smell your disgusting breath, and I don’t want to hear your pathetic sobbing.” He paused. “Then, get on your stomach. I want you face down.”

One part of Dex found it humiliating, but a slutty drunk part of him totally loved it. He stuffed his mouth with the sock, grateful that the material was thin so it all fit inside. It started to soak up spit immediately and soon his mouth was dry and his teeth were grinding against the soft cotton stuffed inside his mouth.

Not long after Dex flipped over onto his stomach so that he was face-down in the pillows, the weight of the bed shifted. Suddenly, Fisk was right above him. His body was close, heat radiating from his touch. When he spoke, he was at full volume, stern and level. “This isn’t a favor, do you understand me?”

Fisk thrusted into him.

He went in completely dry, no lubricant whatsoever aside from the natural slipperiness of the condom, and Dex sobbed, muffled into the gag. There were hands on him, gripping into his thighs, spreading them. He wondered what kind of bruises this would leave. He wondered if he was going to break and bleed without lube, but he didn’t care. 

The pain felt good. He _hoped_ Fisk would tear him. He squeezed his eyes tight so more tears squeezed out of them. He allowed himself to cry out into the gag. Nobody could hear him.


End file.
